


Help Me See You

by Hazardous_Material



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adorable Sherlock, Crazy Sherlock, Cute Sherlock, F/M, Fear, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Sherlock, Murderers, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Special mind powers, Suicide, bad past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazardous_Material/pseuds/Hazardous_Material
Summary: A girl with an exceptional gift for reading people, tires so hard to escape her past, by locking everything up inside her head. When an opportunity comes her way to start a new life in London she jumps at the chance. But two problems quickly become apparent to her, the only apartment she can find available is 221C Baker Street, and she is forced to be the liaison between Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes. She can't remember him, or anything about him, but she swears that they have met before. While she tries to hide her gifts, someone else starts to realize she is more than just a normal girl  and decides to play a game with her and Sherlock.  What happens when girl falls in love with a sociopath and a psychopath decides to make a game involving life and death just for them?  Life and Death with a hint of Love. A recipe for Disaster.





	1. Files and Headaches

‘Help me..’ A young, innocent, voice floated into my subconscious but all I saw was blackness. 

‘Help..’ A scared voice carved itself into my bones. I sighed, calming my already frayed nerves, I opened my eyes rubbing them. I had tried to forget that voice, that memory. I had divided pieces of it, stripping it of its terrible, heart wrenching powers and locked them away in my mind. It’s like a giant house, a mansion or palace even. I locked what I didn't want to remember away, or threw it out like trash. Things got to me, in ways they shouldn’t get to a normal girl, my parents did say I was too smart for my own good. I looked at my silver wrist watch. 6:00 PM, I groaned. I had forgotten how long I was sitting here for. As I began to focus on reality, the obnoxiously hectic office noise, began to seep into my ears.

Scotland yard was in absolute hysteria, people were yelling and dragging criminals left and right, papers flying on the floor, discarded, like my presence here was. I held my backpack on my lap, it was covered in buttons, but it was just an ordinary black bag. I loved buttons, some people call it a stupid habit but I like to collect buttons. They remind me that everything I see and everywhere I go isn't just in my head. I rubbed the button that said ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I didn't want to come.’ That button seeming to be a constant mood, but never a reality for me, because of my chronic OCD and Anxiety. I looked down at my watch once more in pure agony. 

The door to my right swung open with a thud, causing me to jump. A man in a white button down shirt, his black tie hanging far from his neck, ran his hand threw his short gray hair, releasing a deep sigh. I raised an eyebrow, confused for just a moment, it didn't take long to figure that this was Detective Inspector Lestrade. I can’t particularly blame him for being so forgetful of our meeting, since everything seemed to be in a state of utter chaos. He turned to go back inside when, I smiled sweetly at him, he stopped and stared at me. 

“Hello.” I said not bothering to get up, incase he would make me wait for him longer. 

“Oh, Hello.” He sounded strained and tired, he rubbed the back of his head, nervously. 

“I’m here for the intern position.” I prompted him, I really needed this internship or else I would be forced to go back home, I would rather go anywhere then back home. I needed London. 

His eyes went wide as if I had just sucked his soul from his body, cracking a smile and yelling a little louder than everyone one else in the office, “OH!!” I flinched just a little, he hurried back inside his office. 

“Come on in!” He called me inside like I was an old mate, probably just relieved to have a distraction from the never ending pile of work that seemed to encase his desk. I got up and gingerly closed the gray door behind me. He sighed as he leaned back in his black reclining desk chair. The whole room became apparent to me, every little detail.   
That’s when my mind took a shot of adrenaline. Everything became so clear, a light got switched on somewhere in my mind. 

The room smelt of sweat, stale milk and week old coffee, the stench attacked my nose. My nose crinkled on reflex. He hasn’t been home in days, two to three days max. His white shirt began to turn a little brown near the armpits and the old coffee stains began to grow lighter. His desk was covered in papers, his handwriting getting messier and messier the more papers I scanned, he began to get more and more agitated with people, not like he had much patience to begin with. He watched the clock, angst ridden, it was 6:10 his hand reflectively went to his stomach. He usually ate dinner by now, but judging from his trash his eating habits have been less scheduled and even less healthy, he glanced at it and regret flashed in his eyes. His diet was failing and he felt guilty about it. He hid the dumbbells under his desk. His life revolved around his office, he had a pillow and blanket on a black couch pressed against the right side of the office, rarely slept in. His eyes had very dark circles around them, his breath stank of coffee beans and grape five hour energy. 

“So, Sierra Rosa is it?” His gruff, tired voice pulled me out of my analytical trance. 

My head started to throb. 

I sat down on the only other chair in the room, it was worse than the one outside. Spine straining, and it made an awful creaking noise, just breathing made it moan.

“Yes, sir.” I said with a smile, my heart began to beat more erratically. My nervousness was becoming more and more apparent by the minute. 

He chuckled and dropped my folder on his desk, containing my application and my resume. 

“There is no need to be nervous. You already got the job.” He said with a yawn. 

I blinked rather shocked. 

“Wait, what?” My eyes went wide. I couldn’t help but smile. 

He nodded chuckling. 

“You got the job. You will be stationed outside my office at the desk you see when you come into the squad room.” He pointed in the general direction like I could see through the wall. 

“Thank you so much!” I said getting up, my body was tingly with excitement. Everything seemed to be going great for me. 

I spoke too soon. 

He held his hand up, as he flipped through more files, “Hold on.” He pulled a giant manila folder from his desk. It was the biggest file I’ve ever seen. 

A lump formed in my throat. I hated last minute surprises. 

“You are what your professors down at University call a people person?” 

I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement. 

“Umm yes," I didn’t know how to explain this properly, or even if there was a way I could. “ According to them and my doctors it seems that I have an exceptional skill at reading people and their mental state by micro expressions…” I trailed off. He stared at me, looking a little dumbfounded. 

Then a huge smile grew across his face. I had no idea what this meant for me. I was nervous and intrigued, with a dash of excited and a pinch of worry. 

“You are perfect then.” He said standing up with a smile growing bigger by the minute. 

“For?” I asked extremely curious and a tad bit annoyed at the fact that I was clueless. I glanced at my wrist watch as he got up and went to the rusty cabinet that was nearly camouflaged by all the paperwork and a couple bulletproof vests. I was gonna be late to look at this apartment that I had lined up while I was on the plane here.

He handed me a giant manila folder, I cradled it like a baby, it sure as hell weighed as much.   
“You get to deal one on one with this special bastard.” He said with a chuckle, heading back to his messy desk. I could barely see the surface of the desk standing up. 

I looked down and read the name on the file cover in big black letters. 

“ Sherlock Holmes?” I couldn’t remember where I heard that name before. 

“The one and only consulting detective. He is a handful.” Lestrade shook his head with a smile. “You are free to go now, just read the file before you come into work tomorrow, I have this strange feeling that he will bust in bright and early.” Just like that my presence was once again ignored, he dived right back into to his work, so I let myself out. 

I looked back down at the file again. ‘Sherlock Holmes’ The consulting detective, once I started to sort through my mind files about where I heard that name before, a pang of searing pain went through my head. 

I looked around as the pain lessened, I had forgotten my way out of this cluster fuck of police officers and detectives. I spotted an officer reading the newspaper and on the front page in big black letters read, ‘SHERLOCK HOLMES DOES IT AGAIN,” I didn't bother reading the whole headline, I just scanned it for a picture. 

Dark curly hair, and intense smoky gray-blue eyes. He was standing next to a shorter man with dark ashy blonde hair and haunting deep blue eyes. The shorter man’s name is John Watson, at least that is what I think it said. The paper was too far away for me to see clearly. I looked back at his file. I don't know much about him but it seems just a tad bit ridiculous for someone to have this big of a file. I made my way to the exit, then the real question hit me just as the cold London air wrapped around my body.

Why the hell does he have a file this big?!


	2. 221C Baker Street, Send Help.

The London air began to seep into my bones like acid, as I walked up to the black oak door. It had a dirty golden 221b knocker on it. I looked down at the email the landlady, Ms. Hudson had sent me giving me the address to this housing complex. 

It was the right address. I opened the door and was met with a rather pungent odor of chemicals and decaying body parts. I covered my mouth, my nostrils burning in agony. 

Jesus Bloody Christ. 

“Sherlock! Stop whatever you are doing that is making that disgusting smell!” An old lady, made her way from, what I was guessing was her flat, to the end of the stairs.

I turned the switch in my head off, shutting it down. I knew if I allowed myself to see her, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I closed my eyes and calmly inhaled. 

Wrong move. 

I choked on the stench. 

“Oh Mrs. Hudson he is at it again!” Someone from the upper flat yelled back down to her. 

“Oh dear, Sherlock.” She mumbled to herself before turning around. 

I smiled sweetly at her, trying my hardest not to gag.

She jumped and placed her hand on her chest as if trying to keep her heart in her chest cavity. 

“Oh dear! You scared me love.” She said with a rather stressed tone. 

I switched the weight of the file between arms, it was getting heavier the longer I held it. 

I should have realized exposing the name on the file to her would be a mistake. 

Before I opened my mouth she read the name and called up the stairs. 

“Sherlock! You have a visitor!” I heard the door slam open. 

Oh fucking hell. My eyes went wide and the stench hit me like a freight train. 

“What was that Mrs. Hudson?” A baritone voice rang through the halls. I moved quickly out of the way of the stairs. Coming closer to Mrs. Hudson. 

“N-No, Mrs. Hudson it's me Sierra remember? I came about flat 221c?” I stuttered trying to keep my nerves calm. 

I really did not need him to catch me with his file right now. My brain is fried and I am exhausted. 

“Mrs. Hudson who's here?” The baritone voice rattled my bones. 

Oh heavenly lord if you are there, strike me down now please. 

She looked at me blankly for a couple minutes before yelling back up the stairs just as footsteps were sounded coming down. “Nevermind Sherlock! She is here for me! Go back to your experiments!”

She waved the person on the stairs away and grabbed my arm gently. She was an old woman, but she was not frail at all, her grip on my arm was like an iron shackle. She had light brown hair, and dull brown eyes that would occasionally light up with excitement whenever she said Sherlock’s name. 

“This damn hip,” She mumbled to herself, rubbing her hip. She turned to me with a very grandma-ish smile. “Let’s go get you settled in dear.” She lead me to 221c, which was a basement flat, just underneath Sherlocks. 

After ten minutes of rooting around in one of her old white drawers in her kitchen, she handed me a little antique silver key.

“Sorry about the key love, it's a little clunky. I couldn’t get anyone to rent the flat since,” she took a pause putting her finger to her lip, “I can’t remember the last person who rented this flat!” 

I chuckled, taking the key.

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.” I opened the door and began to descend into my new home. I reached the bottom and she yells down to me. 

“The movers brought everything down a couple hours ago! I hope you can get use to gunfire dear.” That was the last thing she said, before she shut the door. 

Gunfire? I thought, rather alarmed. 

That’s when I heard it. 

Three shots, sounding like thunder, echoed in the flat. I dropped the file, as I ended up making a rather peculiar squeaking noise. My heart was about to explode. Instead of more gunshots all that could be heard was muffled arguing. 

Pictures, data sheets and pages of notes fell out of the file and out on the floor. 

Groaning at the mess, I had just made, I went and picked them up. 

Four pictures caught my eye. They were of a man in a black suit, with chocolate brown hair and menacing dark brown eyes. He looked rather familiar too. I flipped the pictures over and they had a name scribbled in black sharpie on the back. 

“James Moriarty.” I said aloud. 

Talking to myself is my favorite past time. 

I whined picking up the rest of the pictures sprawled on the floor and the file itself. I plopped down on my mattress on the ground and opened the file, sorting it all back into it, as well as I could. 

My eyes were swimming in words. I switched off the lights and just sat in darkness. 

I needed my brain on for this shit. I yawned taking my shoes, pants and jacket off and dropped the folder on my bedside table and curled up in my batman fuzzy blanket.

I decided I would read the bloody monstrosity in the morning before work. 

I drifted off in a dreamless sleep with the name, James Moriarty rattling around in my mind. 

-THE NEXT DAY-

I had gone to bed around 7:30 last night so because of my obnoxious sleeping habits, I got up at 6:30 AM, it was unnatural. 

I sat at the little table, that I passed off as the dining table. I sighed holding a cup of hot chocolate. I couldn’t stand the smell of coffee beans, it made me gag. 

I had taken a shower, in the surprisingly nice bathroom and made a bagel, all before 7. Now sat with the file in front of me. It was 7:20, my shift started at 8:30. Sighing, I flipped open the file. 

A barrage of words and piles of pictures jumped out at me. I closed my eyes and took a breath. I took all the pictures and put them to one side and took papers with specific names and put them in their own piles. 

I took a sip of my hot chocolate, then grabbed a pile of papers and pictures that had the name ‘Mycroft Holmes’ written in black marker on it. 

‘Mycroft Holmes, the eldest Holmes brother.’ I blinked, I felt as if I’ve seen him before too. The searing pain surfaced in my head again. I rubbed my temples, groaning. 

“Jesus..” I sighed. 

I looked at the pictures, he was tall. He had dark brown hair, neatly combed back. Most of these pictures have him wearing a black pinstripe suit with a red tie and handkerchief. He was always carrying an umbrella with him. I couldn't help but smile at the peculiar habit. 

His eyes, they were a different kind of blue. A watery grayish blue. Intense and angry. I stared at his face and then I quickly grabbed a notepad and pen. I flipped it open and began writing things down. 

‘Mycroft Holmes.’ I wrote at the very top of the page. I grabbed his papers, there wasn’t nearly as much paper here, as there were for the other piles. On the first page of the cluster, I spotted a sharpie scribble on the bottom of the page. 

‘HE IS THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT’ I raised my eyebrow in confusion and wrote that directly underneath his name. 

I leaned back staring at Mycroft’s pictures, fixing them in their neat little pile. I put his paperwork a little ways underneath my pad. 

I began to write;

‘Mycroft Holmes.   
Is the British government. Has a gift, like his brother. Although he seems to take it more serious. He seems to be a rather angry man. Has an attachment to an umbrella. Has parental issues, most likely mommy issues. Being the first born makes him much more prone to keep secrets from his family. Doesn’t interact with family if he can help it. Sherlock only gets interacted with because of his status with Scotland yard. Prefers to be alone. Secrets are wearing him down. His eyes are alert, fearful., His mouth is in a constant frown, he rarely finds anything to smile about. The pressure of his job leaves very little room for love.’

I paused, a sadness bloomed in my chest. This man was someone I never wanted to become. Is this what happens to people with gifts?

I put the notepad down and picked up the papers. Reading more. 

‘Refers to people that are not up to par with his intellectual status as goldfishes.’ I laughed a little. That was something I never heard before. I scanned over the information about his parents. They seemed normal enough. 

‘Mycroft Holmes controls everything.’ Was the last thing written on the first page. This made my nerves stand on end. Not creepy at all. 

I flipped through the remaining three pages of his file. Which contained a health report and Lestrade’s notes. His handwriting is atrocious. I grabbed the pictures and the papers putting it back into the file. 

Time to move onto the next. 

I grabbed the second pile, it was just a couple pages bigger than Mycroft's. 

‘John Watson.’ I flipped to the next page of the notepad and wrote his name at the top.   
I grabbed the pictures and assessed them. 

He had dark ashy blonde hair and dark blue eyes. It was the man I saw on the newspaper back in Scotland yard. His eyes told a sad story. They looked like they had been through hell, they looked tortured and scared, but cold and calculating. There was a picture where he was smiling, there his eyes looked kind and warm. He often wore multiple shades of brown clothing in these pictures. He was short but seemed even shorter next to Sherlock. 

I scanned the file. ‘Afghanistan, Army medic. Shot in the line of duty.’ I blinked and the file contained his army record. If he was an afghan army medic, there is no doubt in my mind that he went to a therapist. 

Of course, this file even contains his therapist's notes. 

I pulled the notepad closer, began to write. 

‘John Watson,   
Served as a Medic in the Afghan war. Was shot on duty, got a medal and was discharged. His eyes still see the battlefield, his marksmanship scores were one of the best the army has ever seen. Moved into 221b Baker street with Sherlock after he got home from Afghan. Had a psychosomatic limp, is still dealing with the emotional rush and PTSD, He is managing a blog per his therapist's request. He writes about Sherlock, so therefore his blog has gotten a lot of attention.’ 

I chewed on the end of the pen, debating whether or not to check out the blog, I checked my watch, 7:45. I still had time to kill. 

I grabbed my laptop and flipped it open, I was greeted with the familiar face of Dean Winchester as my desktop background. That man has some beautiful eyes. I unlocked it and was shown the gorgeous face of Loki from Thor. He was my desktop screensaver. I loved these men and their characters they played. 

Love….

I began to feel a tugging in my chest, love was something I had gotten very little of as a child, even as I grew up boys were strange things to me, I could never figure out how to act or how to maintain a relationship. I groaned letting my head fall onto my desk. 

I might as well get a strange attachment to an object and work for the government then.   
Who could ever love someone like me? 

I shook my head and all the lights in my mind palace turned on and I began to focus.

I typed in the web address provided in his therapist's notes and up came a blog filled with cases John and Sherlock closed. There was so many. 

I scrolled through reading pieces from each case, John had a beautiful way of writing. He should be a writer full time. 

Suddenly I got a brilliant idea. If I’m going to do my job properly, I need to know everything about Sherlock and John. Gathering information has always been something I excelled in, unlike math or gym, I really hated school some days. 

I got up and quickly picked up the giant whiteboard I had, hiding behind tons of boxes. I dragged it over to the table and hung it on the nails that were left behind by the previous owners. It fit perfectly. I took the pictures of John, Mycroft and put them on the whiteboard and taped some to the wall next to the others, to save some room. I grabbed a white board marker and started writing key things down for each. 

Mycroft  
Loner, British government, Hates people, refers to them as goldfishes, secrets are becoming a burden for him to bear, prefers not to see his family. Keeps his feelings locked up. Iceman. Rarely ever smiles. Has an obsession with a black umbrella. Knows everything that goes on in London. Is missing love. 

Weakness, his little brother Sherlock. 

I underlined British government, iceman, knows everything and missing love, and his weakness is Sherlock. Those are the key components to Mycroft Holmes. 

I drew a line to where I would put John’s information and wrote Connection: Sherlock. I moved over a couple steps and wrote John’s information . 

John  
Afghan war medic, shot in the line of duty. Is prone to psychosomatic fits, is in need of a therapist. Loves adrenaline, knows how to shoot and use guns with exceptional skill. Has abandonment problems, has a very deep sense of duty. Cares for Sherlock like family. Will sacrifice his life for him. Has immense patience. Will never regain a sense of peacefulness again.   
Weakness, his best friend Sherlock.

I underlined war medic, shot in line of duty, prone to psychosomatic fits, cares for Sherlock and never will regain a sense of peacefulness, and his weakness is Sherlock. 

I drew a line to where I was going to write Moriarty’s information. I wrote Connection: ??? on the line.

I sat back down gazing at the work I had just done, looking at the pictures, my head began to race 5 thousand miles a minute. Looking at any pictures of anyone something happens inside my brain. 

Words describing them and their emotions swimming, bouncing against the inside of my skull. Voices telling me what they might do claw at the inside of my brain. Thoughts scream inside my head pushing against my eyes tell me why they do what they do. 

Pain, anguish, loneliness, anger, revenge, a sense of duty to one's country, a sense of pride. 

He needs to protect London. He needs to protect Sherlock. He needs to make sure the government does its job. He needs to make sure he writes his blog everyday to keep his mind occupied. He needs to stay away from his family. He needs to stop wishing he had one, all it does is hurt him because he believes he won't ever have one. 

Their weakness needs to not be Sherlock. But they care and love him too much. Family is family.

Sherlock will be the death of them. 

I covered my eyes and shut my brain down. I have very little control anymore. I tend to ignore them but sometimes it doesn't work. 

I turned back to the blog and starred it to my favorites bar, I’ll come back to it later. I looked at the remaining two piles. A sense of dread formed in my heart, am I really cut out for this? These people are complicated and have a life that I could never imagine wanting. 

8:00. I sighed and shoved Mycroft’s and John’s files into my lock box and locked it up. I looked around for a place to keep this safe, there wasn’t much room down here. 

I decided to pry open a floor board under my mattress and slide it under. It fit perfectly. I sighed wiping the dust off my black jeans, i fixed my disheveled batman t-shirt and grabbed my black jacket and shoved the remaining two folders into my bag. 

Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. The biggest two piles left. I finished my hot cocoa and grabbed my keys. I turned the lights off and headed outside to call a taxi. 

I trudged up the stairs as I finished making the call for a taxi. I closed and locked the door behind me. The smell of chemicals and decaying body parts still lingered. 

I made my way for the front door when I heard that smooth baritone voice. I had my hand on the door handle just as they were coming down the stairs. I froze, I don't know why I bloody fucking froze?! I held my breath, I opened the door just as they hit the last step. 

“Oh? Hello.” a kind voice floated into my ears. I looked up to the ceiling in absolute agony. 

God help me please. 

I didn’t turn around, I couldn’t. 

‘Hello!” I said and hurried out the door. All I heard was mumbling behind me. I saw the black taxi cab waiting at the curb and hurried into it. I relaxed and told the driver Scotland Yard. I sighed, with a small smile, sitting in the middle of the backseat. I liked to watch through the windshield, it was because of my unfounded sense of paranoia. I looked at my watch 8:12, it was going to take at least twenty minutes to get there. So I decided to do some reading. I pulled out Sherlock’s folder and opened it up just as I got the most horrifying news ever.

“We are just going to wait a minute here darlin, two guys from the same building need a ride somewhere, killing two birds with one stone.” The man chuckled. 

“S-Sir please don’t!” I stuttered. I choked on air just as both doors opened and two men slide in next to me. 

I slammed the file shut and held it close to my chest. John Watson sat on my left and Sherlock on my right. I couldn't fucking breathe. 

“Scotland Yard.” Sherlock said to the driver. As he whipped out his phone and began to text and tweet away. 

“Oh what a coincidence! The little lady here is going to the same place!” I wanted to cry, I did not want to be in this situation. I did not want to be sitting next to him with his file in my hands. 

“So you are the new tenant in 221c?” John asked nicely, with a sweet smile. I turned to him and nodded. 

“Yea, it's not that bad down there.” I tried to sound not as nervous as I felt. 

My brain turned on, and it began to go into its analytical state once more. But I pushed it into my basement and locked it away ignoring it. I could not do this in front of either of them. It would just be creepy because I would be just staring at him.

“Why are you going to Scotland yard?” I couldn’t swallow. I turned and looked at Sherlock who was staring in depth at his phone. 

“Sherlock that is none of your business.” John scolded him like a child. 

Thaaank you John. 

I relaxed a little and looked back out the windshield, when John scolded him, it then made Sherlock put his phone down and look at me and John. 

I looked back at him. Out of habit. Big mistake. 

I could see his eyes calculating everything about me. I could see the rooms in his mind palace filling with information and deductions. 

It made me very uncomfortable. 

“It was just a question John.” He said without taking his eyes off of me. 

I looked away because I could feel my face getting hotter. No one has ever stared at me that long or even noticed my presence in depth like this before. Pitiful I know. 

“You work there don’t you?” He asked curiously. 

I knew he knew the answer already but now he was playing a game. 

“Yea.” Was all I could muster up the strength to say. 

“Whose file do you have there?” He asked but his voice changed, he honestly could not tell whose file it was. 

“Sherlock.” John warned. 

He threw up his hands in exasperation. 

“What!” He said aggravated. 

We pulled up to Scotland yard. I was about to pull money out of my pocket, because I hated wallets. I kept the file close to my chest knowing his eyes were still watching me. 

“No worries I got it.” John said and paid the taxi. 

“T-Thank you.” I said a bit shocked as he got out of the taxi. I quickly followed him. Sherlock got out his door and walked over to us. 

“You still didn’t answer my question.” He probed absorbed with his phone once more.   
“You don't know?” I said with a bit of spite and sarcasm. 

He looked up from his phone and began to open his mouth, he seemed more agitated than before. That is when Lestrade opened the double doors. 

‘ Mental note: he hates when he doesn’t know something.’ I smirked just a little.

“Well, Sierra you're early!” Lestrade announced to everyone with a smile. It looked like he finally went home to change and rest a little. 

I rolled my eyes pinching the bridge of my nose. Secrecy isn't anyone's friend around here. 

“So Sierra is it?” Sherlock stared back at his phone his thumbs going a mile a minute. I wanted to die just a little bit more each minute I was with him 

I looked at Lestrade hoping to convey my worry, I gestured to the file. 

His eyes widened ever so slightly. 

“Sierra why don’t you go to your desk and get settled.” I knew a certain question was burning in his skull. ‘Why are you with them?’

I sighed, clutched the folder and hurried inside. I felt eyes burning into my back. I put my bag inside the biggest drawer in my desk and took the two files out and put them in my work satchel thingy Lestrade left on my desk for me. I locked the drawer and grabbed the crime scene file that had already been shoved in the satchel. I stomached my nerves and I let my analytical monster out of the basement. My anxiety and paranoia were strongly present. I didn’t want to be near Sherlock. I felt it in my heart, but I didn’t know why. It felt like guilt and anguish. I can read other people like a book, but I could figure myself out for shit. I rubbed my eyes just as Anderson and Donovan walked by.

“Oh joy, the freak is here already.” Donovan sneered, as they walked out the doors. 

It was going to be a very, very long day.

Send Help.


	3. Sherlock, The Crime Scene and Me

One word is all I need to describe the trip to the crime scene. 

Unbearable. 

Sherlock arguing and texting nonstop and periodically analysing me because I refused to acknowledge him. Watson trying his hardest to control Sherlock. Donovan calling Sherlock very hurtful things and Lestrade putting minimal effort into controlling any of them. I gladly got the window seat, next to John, I kept quiet and let my mind calmly wander, but even that was a struggle. I found myself delving deep into random bystanders. I could hardly keep up with myself. 

The car ride ended and we arrived at the scene with even more angry banter. As they all shuffled out of the car, I stayed behind. Lestrade stayed by the car, leaning against the driver side door. I clutched the satchel to my lap. I honestly never thought my first day would be homicide or that I would be thrusted into Sherlock’s spotlight. Lestrade gently tapped the window, fighting for my attention. I swallowed hard and open the door and got out. Lestrade pushed it closed. 

“Why did you arrive with him?” Lestrade asked so matter of factly. 

“I neglected to check where Sherlock lived so by pure luck I now live in the flat below his.” I looked at Lestrade giving him a tight lipped, painful smile. 

“Bloody hell. What does he know?” 

I opened my mouth to answer but then I realized that I didn’t actually know the scope of what he knows. I couldn’t even fathom it. 

“The basics, I guess. He knows I work for you, I don’t know what else, and I couldn’t figure it out, unless I spent time with him.” 

The thought itself sent heart palpitations thundering in my chest. Lestrade sighs. 

“Well I don’t want that happening just yet.” He patted my shoulder and began walking to the yellow tape. 

“Giuseppe Billingsley. Known on the streets as Godfather. He is an American here with a legitimate passport.” Lestrade started talking before I was even walking next to him. I didn’t bother taking the file out till we were inside the tape, I'm too clumsy and there are too many ‘innocent’ bystanders around. 

I stayed close to Lestrade as he pushed through the onlookers. Sherlock and Watson were already inside and inspecting the body. I ducked under the tape. Lestrade’s talking slowly got drowned out by my mind revving up. I saw the body and I was gone. 

On my own planet, in my own palace. My mind Palace. 

Giuseppe Billingsley, age approximately 30 to 35. Midnight blue black hair, greasy and slicked back. Stereotypical Italian man. He wasn't Italian, his dark tan complexion suggested Hispanic origin. His eyes are a dark almost black shade of brown, mostly attributed with Hispanic/Latino or middle eastern heritage. His nails were neat and clean. Recently got a manicure. 

I sniffed the air. The scent of cheap lavender perfume, sweat and sex accompanied by expensive alcohol lingered in the air. I couldn’t help by crinkle my nose and curl my lips. He recently attended an very upscale brothel. Lavender elevates sex drive and alcohol keeps the paying customers stupid and it rakes in the money just as fast as the girls.

His clothes were new, they had the just out off the rack look, that and the tag was still on his grey silk button up shirt. It was either silk or satin. I couldn’t move to touch the body, standing this close to it was almost becoming unbearable. 

Giuseppe Billingsley. Billingsley. Giuseppe. 

Why did that sound so strange in my mouth? The origins of those names were so racially and ethnically distinct and different. 

Then again I could be overthinking things, I haven’t gotten a hang of this so called gift yet. Dealing with it for 20 years and I haven’t even begin to scratch the surface of what I’m capable of. 

I took a deep breath. The sound of the police, Sherlock and Watson grew louder each second. I blinked and sighed. A headache surfaced. I winced and looked for Lestrade. There was a mental itch I needed to fix. I found Lestrade talking to a police officer manning the yellow tape. 

“Um, Lestrade?” My voice sounded hoarse and small. He turned to me with his hands on his hips. 

“Yea? You got something?” Authority slithered it’s way in his voice. 

“Can I see his passport?” I asked rubbing my palms together. 

Lestrade whistled at a nearby cop with an evidence bag, without a word the cop gave it to Lestrade and waddled off to his own business. With a gloved hand Lestrade pulled out a navy blue passport with a golden United States emblem. I gingerly took it into my hands and flipped through it. The only stamps that were in here were JFK, New York, and Gatwick, London. Multiple times back and forth, back and forth. Strange but not alarming. 

I flipped to the data page of the passport. A picture of Mr. Billingsley and his information looked legit, all neat and crisp. New. Too new for a passport with as many stamps as this one. 

I rubbed my fingers over the words. I fiddled with the edges to see if the laminate was tampered with. I smelled the passport, it smelt too new, the prominent smell of ink barrage my nostrils. I coughed and scrunched up my face. 

“What is it?” Lestrade asked concerned, crossing his arms. 

I ignored his question, because something else was bothering me about this. What was it? What was missing? Or just plan incorrect?

My eyes scanned the data page over and over as my mind went over the mental security check any airport would do to a passport and everything seemed to check out. I sighed and took a deep breathe. I closed my eyes for a minute and envisioned a proper passport. 

Picture, data, emblem, color coding. Embossed security images. 

Wait. 

I opened my eyes and rubbed my thumb over the laminate. 

“Well?” Lestrade asked, his patience being tested.  
“Its a fake.” I stated looking up at him. I hadn’t realized that Sherlock had stopped his investigation and was watching me from the other side of the crime scene. 

“No way! The airport sai-” 

“The airport isn’t always reliable. Plus it isn't a stretch to assume he has someone inside the airport that helped him through every time he traveled. He only had two repetitive stamps in his passport. JFK in New York and Gatwick” I turned to the body. 

“Plus just look at him. He wants to be perceived as an Italian man, which he is not. His complexion is of middle eastern or Hispanic heritage and his eyes are a dark almost black brown which many Italians have a very low percentage of having. His hair is naturally curly but he straightens it and smooths it back, forcing him to use excessive amounts of hair gel. Also his name, Giuseppe Billingsley. Giuseppe Italian origin, Billingsley is anything but Italian, its old English, rarely used in America let alone Italy. It’s a very unusual combination.” 

I looked at Lestrade and paused to see if he was capable of processing what I was saying. He stared at the body in awe, his mind struggling to follow along. 

“The nail in the coffin is that this passport does not have the standard security image embossed in the laminate.” I opened the passport and rubbed my finger across the surface.

“It's an alias and this is a fake passport. If you want to find out where he has been and who he is. I suggest the-”

“The brothel on Knox Street, which doubles as a club. Club 66 is the name.” 

I swallowed hard and looked up at Lestrade, who was looking at the speaker. He opened the evidence bag, in which I dropped the passport back in. Sherlock was standing next to the body, a couple steps behind me. 

“She’s correct on all counts Lestrade. The passport is fake and this man is trying to be someone he surely isn’t.” Sherlock’s presence crept up my back. 

“Sherlock, this is Sierra Rosa. She just started today and she is the acting liaison between you and Scotland yard.” Lestrade said with a nervous and depressed tinge in his voice.  
I turned around, as every fiber of my being screamed not too. 

“N-Nice to meet you.” I stuttered and stuck my hand out, trying not to make eye contact. 

“Surely, that is a lie.” He just looked at my hand, not bothering to reach for it. I closed my hand and dropped it. 

“Sherlock!” Watson scolded. 

I sighed softly. Relaxing my already pulsating mind. 

“Sherlock, why are you being-”

“Being what? I don’t like being played Inspector.”

“Played? No one is playing you!” Lestrade stated exasperated. 

“Oh please, you don’t bring in someone like her here just to be a liaison!”

Sherlock said liaison in such a mocking tone. I looked up at him, meeting his cold dark, now fully gray eyes, filled with such disdain, and curiosity. 

“You don’t know me, there isn’t anything you could actually know about me.” I glared at him. 

He smirked and leaned down. 

“You may be right darling, but I do know this, you and I are the same.” 

I wished to dear god that when he looked at me, he didn’t see me. 

But he sees right through me. He sees me, and that scared me like nothing else.


End file.
